Page 58 of The Little Shop on Silver Linings Street
She stared at him. ‘But that must have taken… how do you even…?’ She stopped. ‘And this is going to sound incredibly stupid but,whywould you even? I don’t mean why have a house like this, that’s blindingly obvious, but to build it yourself. There can’t be many people who would do that.’
Kit smiled. ‘I hope the answer to that question will become apparent when we go inside.’ He ushered her forward with his hand. ‘Shall we?’
The front door opened into a space the full height of the building, rising majestically above them and, as Daisy looked around her, she realised that the whole of the house was open to the roof; there were no ceilings to any of the rooms. Instead, intersecting the space, were walls, made from the same huge logs that formed the outside but these only rose to half height, creating rooms that had an incredibly cosy and intimate feel, while at the same time being light and airy. She moved through the space with her head craned upward to look at the intricacy of the wooden beams above and a growing sense of wonder deep inside her.
She followed Kit under an archway in the wall ahead of her, carved out of the solid logs so that as she passed through she could see the whole ends of the tree trunks that had made it. Her mouth dropped open as she looked around her in a daze. In front of her an enormous log burner was ablaze with dancing flames, and in one corner stood another Christmas tree, at least fifteen foot tall. She scarcely knew what to look at first.
The polished wood floor was partially covered with a huge creamy tufted rug and there were plants everywhere; on surfaces, lining shelves, and even overflowing from a series of pots sunk into a beam that was suspended from the ceiling. Everything was plain and simple in design, rustic some might call it, but the effect was stunning. And as she gazed in wonder at everything around her, Daisy realised with a sudden sharp insight that what she was looking at was Kit himself, his very essence shining through every single item in the room. She was beginning to understand.
She inspected the rug, then looked at a shelf and the objects upon it, the coffee table and the selection of books it held, until, finally, she turned back to Kit who had not said a word since they entered his house.
‘You made all this,’ she said. A statement not a question. ‘Everything here.’
A slow smile transformed Kit’s face. ‘I did,’ he replied. ‘Everything you see is either built from reclaimed materials, or recycled, repaired and given a new lease of life. The windows, floors, doors, everything, all the soft furnishings too. You can’t see it tonight, but I have a garden where I grow all my own vegetables, and slightly further afield is a borehole which supplies all my water, and a wind turbine which provides most of my electricity. I tread as lightly as I can.’
‘How long has it taken you?’
Kit grinned. ‘A long time. About seven years all told. I decided on my twenty-first birthday that I needed to do something with my life that I could be proud of.’
‘And this is it.’
‘Yes, this is it. Most of it anyway. I have a few other… things I support.’
Daisy searched his face, wondering not for the first time how she never knew these things about Kit. She looked at him, at his open expression, and realised that he wasn’t showing off, or being boastful of his achievements, he was simply happy to be living the kind of life that held meaning for him. And suddenly she understood perfectly where Kit’s quiet strength came from. He had no need to prove himself to anyone, everything he needed was right here.
‘How can you possibly bear to be at Buchanans?’ she asked.
‘Ah…’ He gave her a sheepish grin.
‘Do you know I used to think you were lazy, or that you just didn’t care, about anything much…’ She bit her lip. ‘I feel awful now, for even thinking those things.’
‘No, don’t feel awful. That was entirely my fault. I spent so long when I was younger feeling I had to justify my actions with everyone, particularly my family, that in the end I think I gave up bothering to explain. Of course what I should have been doing was looking for the right kind of people to explain it to, people who would understand because of whotheyare. Which is really why you’re here…’
Daisy could feel a warmth rising up inside of her. ‘Oh, I see…’
Kit smiled. ‘I rather hoped you would. And in answer to your previous question, yes, my way of life is at complete odds with everything that Buchanans stands for and yet it would be hugely hypocritical for me to turn my back on it. My father started the business and the money I inherited when he died has allowed me to support certain things that would otherwise be beyond me. So, I have no wish to see the family business die out, but it’s a rather curious position to be in nonetheless.’
‘Then why go through with the whole competition?’
He was quiet for a few seconds, weighing up his response. ‘Because Buchanans doesn’t have to be the way it is now,’ he replied. ‘And I believe there’s a better way, but unless the business passes to me there will be nothing I can do about it. It’s an opportunity I don’t want to let slip by.’ He pursed his lips. ‘But I don’t really want to spend the evening talking about Buchanans, that’s not why I invited you here… And I believe I promised you dinner…’ He held out his hand. ‘Let me take your coat before you start to roast and you can explore while I get some drinks and dinner on the go.’
19
Monday 16th December
Nine shopping days until Christmas
Daisy was beginning to feel rather warm, whether from the heat of the delicious fire or Kit himself, she wasn’t sure. She shrugged off her outdoor things and handed them over, watching as he removed his coat. He was wearing a thick cable-knit jumper and it suited his slim frame. She realised suddenly that Kit was so much a part of this house that it was no wonder he looked slightly awkward outside of it.
He looked down at her feet, an amused expression on his face. ‘Feel free to keep the wellies on if you want, but if not, just sling them by the front door.’ There were archways on either side of the room and Kit pointed to his right. ‘The kitchen is that way, but feel free to have a wander, or just sit by the fire, whatever you prefer. Can I get you a glass of something? I’ve got some homemade mulled wine on the go, or something lighter maybe?’
A sudden flush rose up Daisy’s cheeks. ‘I don’t drink,’ she said. ‘Ever.’ She paused and swallowed. ‘Sorry, what I meant to say was, that sounds lovely, but I’d rather have a soft drink if you don’t mind. Actually, just tea would be lovely.’
Kit’s smile was warm. ‘Just tea it is.’ He held her look for a moment before slipping from the room, leaving Daisy rolling her eyes. For goodness’s sake, she scolded herself, just relax, Kit’s a friend. She bent down to pull off her wellies and, after depositing them by the door as instructed, wandered back into the main room and then through the archway to her left. Something had caught her eye earlier and she was intrigued.
Her face lit up as she entered a room lined with bookshelves. The orange flash of colour she had seen was exactly what she had thought it was; row upon row of old Penguin books. They were all here: Emily Brontë, George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck… She ran a finger lightly along the spines, saying hello to old friends, and then she stood back to look around the rest of the room. There was a whole section devoted to books about sustainable building, technical manuals, and books on subjects Daisy knew nothing about. Many of these were new, but only she suspected because they weren’t available second hand. Apart from these, pretty much every book in the room had already been loved, and clearly a great many by Kit himself. Two squishy armchairs covered in a rich tweed-like cloth were positioned either side of a tall window. A woollen throw was placed over the arm of each, and Daisy could imagine that, winter or summer, it would be the perfect place to read. She pulled one of her favourites from a shelf and sat down, turning to the last page. Her lips turned upward as she read the final lines – a message to the reader that it was futile to try and move forward when everything was connected to the past. If only she could recapture hers. Done things another way. How different her life might have been.
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